Ironic Identity
by stormiecub
Summary: Cotton has always wanted to find a way to give back to the Capitol. He's secretly hoped that he'd one day be reaped so that he can give his life to the Games and the Capitol. But can he hold up once that dream becomes a reality? All he's ever wanted was to die for his country, but is that as glorified as he's always thought it would be?
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first story here on , and I hope that you'll like it. I'm relatively new to writing fan fiction, and your reviews help move things forward. I appreciate all constructive criticism, but please remember to be polite when commenting. **

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The harsh winter in District Eight had hung on for as long as it could manage, the claws of hunger and cold clinging to the land and the people. It had finally died back, warmer weather blanketing the district in relief some time late in June, when summer would arrive hot on its heels. Millers should have been breathing a sigh of relief that the snow had finally melted and that they would once again be able to grow their food, but with winter ending so late in the year, relief was replaced instead with the dread of the upcoming reaping. Warmer weather did that to the people in the districts, perhaps more so in District Eight than in the others.

What had begun as a whispering in dark corners of the mills, crowded as they were with bodies to produce the luxurious fabrics which would be sent to District Two and the Capitol, had quickly grown into a dull roar. Anyone in the district with sense already knew the Peacekeepers were on to them, that there was going to be a price to pay for the rising rebellion, and yet the talk continued. Most nights his father came home late, swaying a bit as he entered the small house where Cotton lived with his father and brother. He swaggered, proud of himself for his part in the rebellion, pleased that he was able to contribute to the freedom and true peace in Panem. Cotton knew better, had read the stories of the first rebellion, had listened to his teachers talk about the terror that it had been in those dark days before the peace brought by the Capitol. His father was, at best, naive, and at worst he was a traitor to the country that had cared for them so carefully and so well for all these years.

Nobody ever got anywhere in rebellion.

Cotton had never understood his father's need to raise his voice above the crowd. Everyone in District Eight knew Cambric, knew the crazy way that he ranted and raved about how the Capitol treated all of them. Because of his father, the Capitol sent too little food to the people of his district. There had been public whippings and even three executions since Cambric had begun his campaign against the Capitol. How he'd never been caught remained a mystery. Cotton assumed it was because the Capitol was saving him to use as an example.

Now his brother - his twelve year old little brother who would experience his first "live" reaping in just under a week - had bought into the line that their father fed him. Cambric had almost convinced his younger son to make a run for it before the reaping day arrived.

That was - fortunately - impossible. The fence was electrified, and anyone who tried to crawl under it or through it or over it would be dead the moment he touched the wire. Was Cambric willing to lose his son to the fence to save him from the Hunger Games? Cotton snorted and shrugged his shoulders. It was no longer his concern, nothing that he could do a thing about. As unsafe though it might be, Cambric was entitled to make his own decisions. They couldn't affect Cotton as long as he remained loyal. Could they?

The truth was that he wasn't sure whether or not they would come for him if things became more precarious with his father. Cambric didn't know when to keep his mouth shut, and he probably didn't know how to keep his mouth shut either.

Somewhere near the middle of the room, somebody shouted. A single, loud bark split the air and everyone in the room fell silent. The man scrambled onto a chair, then climbed up onto a table, standing tall with his arms over his head. Ordinarily the Peacekeepers didn't allow the people to come into groups like this, but late at night it was easier to get them drunk, easier to treat the Peacekeepers as though they were just as human as the rest of the people in the districts.

Cotton wanted to be like them one day.

Not the human side, of course. Nobody wanted to be human in the districts. He wanted the power, the prestige, the ability to carry around a big stick, or even one of those stun guns. Some of the Peacekeepers even carried a whip on them at all times. The very thought made him quiver with excitement. To serve the Capitol in that way would be the culmination of everything he'd spent his entire life hoping for. His father was the only thing that stood in Cotton's way.

Somewhere near the middle of the room, Cambric's head bobbed above the crowd as he fought his way through to the man who stood on the table. Another person shouted, a woman this time, her voice higher in pitch, worried. Cotton smiled. She ought to be worried in this crowd of people who wanted to take down the Capitol. For all they cried for peace in the districts, they created chaos and anarchy. Why couldn't his father and the others see that? It was all a game that could never be won, so much like the Hunger Games. He thrilled at the thought, a little tingle filling his belly with excitement.

Cambric was talking the man down off the table, guiding him down so that he stood on the floor on steady ground, but the man continued to rant drunkenly. Is this what District Eight was coming to? Cotton sighed and shook his head. They were better than this, and they had to be smarter than this.

The only thing holding him back was his father. For a brief moment their eyes met across the crowded room. Cambric smiled, and Cotton turned his head away from his father. His old man was a fool who had no idea what he was bringing down on all their heads. Things were about to get more difficult in the district, and his father and the others involved in the rebellion were bringing it down on the heads of the children, like Weaver. No doubt Weaver's name would be called in the reaping next week. Wouldn't that be poetic justice? Cotton, who would have done anything to serve his country and the president, would have taken all the tesserae in the world to make it up onto that platform, and now he felt confident that the Capitol would make sure to be as cruel as possible. No doubt it would be Weaver up there. Weaver would destroy his father, and give the Capitol the upper hand.

He couldn't volunteer. His father would kill him before that moment could possibly come. Even so, a part of Cotton hoped that it was his name they called in the later part of the following week. He'd mount that platform one foot at a time and smile at the crowds because he would know that come what may, he had, after all, served the Capitol, and that was its own unique sort of power.

Disgusted by his father's display, Cotton turned around and headed out of the building.

"Cotton! Wait!"

He turned. Weaver had followed him out, the bright flush of excitement still painting his cheeks. Cotton groaned inwardly, not giving an outward sign of his distress. It was so easy for the child to believe the lies that their father told about the Capitol, to nestle in with the traitors to the president and to their country. Worse, he did it with a smile on his face, cheerfully walking into the trap that the Peacekeepers undoubtedly had already laid for him.

"Did you hear Father? What he said about the Peacekeepers in our district being weak? He talked to one of them, Cotton! Three of them are on our side now. Can you believe it?"

Cotton shook his head. The foolishness of young boys compared to little else, but surely his father was the fool here. How could he blame a twelve year old for believing the lies their father told? Bending, he looked into Weaver's eyes. "Listen to me, Weaver. I need you to listen to me really hard. Father's wrong about the Capitol. Everything they do is to keep us safe from one another. This is a dog-eat-dog world, Weaver. Do you think that if one of Father's friends changed his mind, that Father wouldn't put him down?"

The twelve year old hesitated for a moment, doubt clouding his features. As quickly as the doubt had come, it was gone again, and he was smiling, shaking his head. "No. No he wouldn't. They're not protecting us from anything, Cotton! All they're doing is taking from us. We work for them, don't you see?"

"You don't work for anybody, Weaver. Don't talk about things you don't understand." He paused for a moment, letting it sink in, then added, "Go home. You don't need to be here. If the Peacekeepers come, I don't want you wrapped up in Father's messes. Go home. I'm going for a walk. I'll meet you there later, and I'll bring a bun."

Weaver went hungry so often, a side effect of Father's rantings and his refusal for the boys to take Tesserae. The Capitol had everything they needed to survive, and it would give it to them if only their father would allow it. The Capitol wasn't their enemy. Father was.

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**Hope you liked it! Be sure to review if you enjoyed the story. Chapter 2 should be up soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

From somewhere at the edge of the square, a voice rose above the crowds. Cotton turned his head to look, stretching his neck so that he could peer at the owner of the voice. It wasn't Cambric. He breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes briefly. If they were going to reap Weaver today - on his first reaping, with his name in the hopper only once - then they didn't need to make a scene out of things. Peacekeepers were already rounding on the man, pulling him off to the side.

Cotton turned away. He didn't need to watch that, to be a witness to the things his father talked about. The Capitol and its Peacekeepers did the things it did for a reason. Peace could not be maintained in the midst of violence. It was a simple concept, but one which his father seemed to struggle with.

No, it wasn't just Cambric: It was all of District Eight, and for all that Cotton knew, all of the lower districts entirely. Just a week ago he'd been standing in a room full of people, one after another shouting, raising their voices above the crowd to make themselves heard. Each of those voices belonged to someone who believed that the Capitol was the enemy, that it was evil. How could they not understand that it was the Capitol that provided for them? Without the Capitol, the districts could hardly distribute their goods from one district to another. The people were reliant on the system that fed and clothed them. What would happen if people like his father put a stop to that and to everything that went along with it? If they thought that the people in the districts were starving now, what would happen if they were cut off from districts ten, eleven, and four?

Really, there was only one thing that a teenager in the districts could do to please the Capitol - at least if they were in District Eight. Weaver would be reaped. No doubt the reaping ball had already been rigged so that they would pull the name of the younger son of the district's most notorious rebel. Why they hadn't already killed Cambric was a mystery, but they would take it out on Weaver. Cotton remained confident of that.

Bodies pushed from all sides, jostling Cotton toward the back, with the older teenagers. He was seventeen this year. Next year he would be free of the Hunger Games, free to find some way to apply himself to obtaining a position as a Peacekeeper. His father shouted behind him, the voice familiar this time, and Cotton turned his head to check for the sound. Cambric waved, a furious gesture that was at once angry, frustrated, and concerned. Ignoring him, Cotton turned his head back to face the front. It was better not to be seen with Cambric Forsythe, no matter that Cotton was his son. People assumed things because of who his father was, and Cotton had been trying to escape all that since three years ago, when his father had first become mouthy.

The portly man who escorted the District Eight tributes to the Capitol every year stood from his seat on the stage and tapped the microphone. Speakers squealed and he cleared his throat for the attention of the waiting crowds. Next to Cotton, a weaker boy with a bum leg cried quietly, his hands covering his face, and the rise and fall of chatter from the girls on the other side of the divided pathway stilled.

This was the slow part of the reaping day, when time seemed to slow to a crawl and everyone just wanted to find out that the reaped names didn't belong to them, or to somebody they loved. That wouldn't happen for Cotton today. He was certain that it would be Weaver whose name was called for the boys. What better way to hurt their father than to take away his son? An ache of loss carved its way into his chest and coiled in his belly, but what could Cotton do about it? Though he'd never be able to explain to Weaver the way that the real world worked, and how important the Capitol was to the people it fed and clothed, they all had a role to play in these games that their president and the country that loved them played. If they were pawns, then so be it: It was worth it for two to die every year (because it was most assuredly both the boy and the girl tribute who would die) in order for the others to continue living with the peace they'd known. Though his father believed that the world was at war, Cotton knew better. There was no greater peace for Panem than this, what they had today. His father believed in more, he believed in hope, but didn't he see? There was hope to be had right here at home?

Perhaps not today.

Cotton peeled his eyes from Patrick Cheddar, there on the platform reciting his memorized speech in that flat monotone that told Cotton he had no plans of a victor from District Eight this year. Eight probably wouldn't even try to win in the Hunger Games. They'd lay down and die at the hands of the career tributes without batting an eyelash. Perhaps some of the boys and girls crowded into the district square would. The girls most certainly. He straightened his back, stood taller and stretched to see if he could spot Weaver.

His brother fidgeted at the front of the assembly. Perhaps he suspected the same thing that Cotton did, that he was going to be chosen in retaliation for their father's mouthiness. Cotton wrinkled his nose as he focused on his little brother, ignoring the drone of what the escort had to say. He'd heard it all a thousand times, knew it by heart. His lips moved in time to the words as they were spoken, in spite of his lack of attention. Weaver turned, their eyes meeting for half a second, and he gave a worried little wave.

Cotton waved back, his hand rising just enough for Weaver to see him, then dropped again. His heart ached for his brother. No child so young had ever won the games and it wasn't likely to happen this time around, either. How could it? Weaver was small, malnourished, not fit for the Arena. Maybe he'd volunteer. It wasn't as though he'd never thought about it.

Forcing himself to put his attention back on what was going on at the podium, Cotton blinked the sweat from his eyes, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. They did this in the summer for a reason: The Capitolites who had to come out here weren't used to the winter cold, but of course none of them were quite prepared for the heat, either. Patrick Cheddar was huffing now, his words coming out in sharp breaths. The weight of his body was more than he could hold up under the muggy heat of the district in the midst of summer. Surrounding people began to mutter under their breath, and finally the desperate man waved his arms at the crowd, drawing their attention back to him. "And now it is time for a message from the Capitol."

It was the same every year, the same long film about the history of Panem. Cotton trained his eyes on the giant screen at over the platform where Patrick Cheddar stood, the mayor and the three previous victors sitting with their backs rigid, staring straight ahead of them. Next to him, a boy groaned and gestured to the screen, indicating it to his friend. No doubt he was bored by the repetition, but Cotton was transfixed, captivated by the story. Every year he listened with the utmost attention. Whatever his father taught at home, whatever he shouted in the pubs or in the homes of his friends, this was the truth, what played on the screen in front of them. The Capitol was responsible for feeding them, clothing them, caring for them. Without the Capitol it would all fall to ruin. Districts One and Two had never been cooperative with the lower districts, and Four wasn't a great deal better. Thanks to the Capitol and the president, they supplied the lower district with their needs, but only enough to survive. After all, the Capitol had to be fed, too.

Around him, people were growing increasingly nervous. Cotton turned his head to the side where the boy had a moment ago been making fun of the display ahead. Now his face had gone a deathly pale as the movie came to an end, indicating that it was only moments before Patrick Cheddar reached into the reaping ball and pulled out the first of the names.

He didn't bother to clap. Nobody did. The square had gone entirely silent as the film came to an end. Somewhere in the crowd one of the younger boys was sobbing quietly. It surprised Cotton that it was a boy, and not a girl, who had lost it this year. No sounds rose above the quiet, wet sounds of the child's tears, and Cotton raised his head. Hopefully it wasn't Weaver who was making such a display of things. Nobody needed a scene, not now. A scene would make things go harder for both of them. No, Weaver would be strong.

Cheddar always pulled the boy first. It was laziness, pure and simple. The boy's ball was closer to where he stood. Cotton held his breath. In just a moment, Peacekeepers would be leading Weaver up onto that stage to punish their father for his sins against the Capitol.

Had he heard it somewhere, some whispering among those in charge? Perhaps it had been a dream, something that had slipped into his sleeping hours to haunt him, but Cotton was certain that it was more than an intuition. Cambric had to be punished, and the price that he would pay for his rebellion was a son gone to the Games, to give his life to the Capitol. It was only too bad it wasn't Cotton himself. He'd looked forward to the opportunity, but he couldn't volunteer. His father would kill him before he even made it to the Arena.

The escort was puffing again on the stage, his fat hands unrolling the slip of paper with the name of the boy tribute on it. Cotton held his own breath, waiting for the certain outrage that would come when Weaver's name was called.

Only it wasn't Weaver's name that was called.

Patrick Cheddar shouted, as though calling out over the din of a crowd, his breath coming in short bursts so that each syllable was pronounced like its own word. "COT-TON FOR-SYTHE!"


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes things worked out the way that you wanted them to, even when you didn't actually want them to. Cotton swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry when he hadn't noticed the dryness a moment before. The boy to his left moved, shifting out of his position to let Cotton slip past him and into the pathway that led to the platform. His body moved automatically, of its own accord in spite of his failure to will it to do so. For years he'd wished quietly that Cheddar would pull his name from that reaping ball, but he'd never dared to express that hope. He was, at best, suicidal, at worst he was a traitor to the districts, and somewhere in the furthest reaches of his mind, Cotton knew that. Father would hate him now, would talk to his friends about how Cotton had always been loyal to the Capitol, and look where it had gotten him. After all, now he was nothing more than a pawn for them to use and control as they wished. Hadn't he always been?

Cambric shouted. This time it was loud, a cry of sheer distress. Cotton turned, and his body was jostled forward by a uniformed Peacekeeper. "Dad! Stop!" he called out to his father. "He's just doing his job!" The Peacekeeper turned him, shoving him forward toward the platform. Cheddar clucked his tongue as another Peacekeeper reached for Cambric, pulling him out of the path and out of the way. He'd be subdued, one way or another, and for a moment the coiled snake of fear in Cotton's gut turned fierce, springing up to grab him by the throat. Once more he swung around, but his father stood, his hands limp at his sides, watching as Cotton finally mounted the steps on his own, without being propelled forward by the armed men who stood nearby to make sure that he completed his journey up the platform.

"Shall we have the girl?" Patrick Cheddar asked without cheerfulness. The escort had always been a grave man, clearly taking his job seriously. Cotton wondered briefly if he'd ever been threatened.

He huffed his way over to the girl's reaping ball and pulled the second name, the name of the girl. "Vel-vet Frost!" he cried without cheer. Cotton's eyes scanned the crowd. The name was unfamiliar. She had to be younger, probably Weaver's age. At the front of the boy's crowd, his brother was quietly weeping now, but Cotton was proud to see that Weaver did so openly, without covering his face with his hands and making a scene about it all. Cotton raised his hand to wave to his brother, to show him that it was okay. He'd go to the Arena, and in the Arena, he would die. It was simple math. Twenty-three other tributes, and he was one of the lucky ones who got to give his life to the Capitol. No glory was to be had in victory in the Games: Victory only meant that you had killed the most people, outlasted more dead than anyone else, and that wasn't what Cotton wanted. Capitol officials never chose residents of District Eight as Peacekeepers anyway: He'd never have been chosen to join them. In this way he would entertain the Capitol, die and be forgotten. It was what he'd always wanted. Leaving the district behind forever was a simple perk of a rather complex suicide.

Cotton didn't think of it as a suicide, of course. He wasn't doing this so that he could die and escape, he was doing it so that he could give his life in service to the country that had nurtured him. Panem needed its tributes, and he was happy to give himself up for the cause. A true tribute came from the willing, not the unwilling, and while most went off to the Arena kicking and screaming, he would make no noise.

The girl had to be dragged onto the platform, the Peacekeepers pulling her by her arms. Her parents screamed, her mother's voice rising the loudest in the crowd. She was no more than fourteen years old, and as Cotton scanned the crowd, he found her father, one of Cambric's friends, staring at him with a blank-eyed gaze that said more than his screams ever could. "You're doing it for your country," Cotton muttered under his breath to the girl. "Shut up and stop wailing. It's a good thing you do, a good thing to die for Panem." But she wasn't listening to him.

She'd probably already stopped caring what he had to say about anything. They were meant to be partners, but what kind of partnership could one have with the person they intended to murder in the Arena. Nothing was ever that simple, and he frowned at her, then turned his head toward the crowds.

"Thank you for your support," he said, dipping a small bow when he was finished. "It will be an honor to give back to the country that has fed and clothed me for the past seventeen years. You should all learn a lesson from this. Stop the madness!"

Noise erupted from the crowd, people shouting and screaming and raising their voices, fists pounding the air in response to his words. He could draw attention the same way that his father could, though not for the same reasons. Perhaps District Eight would learn a lesson from this the same way that he did, in the time that he did. He was ready, and turned to follow the Peacekeepers off the stage, even as they had to drag Velvet off him.

It would be better if his father and brother didn't come to see him in the Justice Building. He had nothing more to say to them, and goodbyes were hard enough as it was.


End file.
